


Salt in Your Wounds

by valammar



Series: Sing With Me [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Chubby Inquisitor, Cullen Acts Like Kind of a Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Murder, Neb Gets Mad, Origin Story, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Plus Size Inquisitor, Pre-Relationship, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valammar/pseuds/valammar
Summary: Everyone has their breaking point.





	Salt in Your Wounds

Skyhold’s foundation included a slog of requisition forms and extensive paperwork, but oh, how they cheered when they welcomed the worried and weary through the gates. Her faith grew tenfold that day. Immediately, she’d set to work in the garden, ensuring that the refugees never wanted for healing or prayer.  

Wounds, she could mend with her own expert touch. In spite of her newly appointed title, Neb would never abandon her vocation to heal the hurt; however, their crestfallen and disturbed spirits were in the Maker’s hands. No balm or salve could cure them. 

The work was excruciating, but she found pleasant company in Ambassador Montilyet. When Josephine expressed her loneliness, Neb offered her quiet company in her quarters over a pot of hot chocolate and flaky biscuits. How she adored Josie, with her gentle demeanor and grace. In a way, the Antivan socialite reminded her of an alternate version of herself; one that had never been carted to the Circle, away from hearth and home. 

Truly, if anything came from her time as the newly appointed Herald, it would be their everlasting bond. They shared a love of sweets and fine wine, and didn't balk when they revealed each other's secret collection of stuffed animals. Even better, they both upheld the ideal that conflict is better resolved peacefully and without violence. Neb considered it a privilege to have someone like her in the organization. 

What she would give to set foot past the ancient stone of Skyhold right now, lounging on her down mattress with her best friend where they’d giggle and gossip like sisters over indulgent imports. How she longed to hear the steady hum of chatter in the great hall, where she and Josephine would cater to an audience of nobility and patrons, forge alliances, and secure swift but fair justice. 

Instead she trudged through the murk and muck in a far-flung region of the wilds called the Fallow Mire, tracking a missing team of Inquisition scouts after she and her companions found themselves entrenched in a genocidal plague and a land war between the Chasind and the Avvar.  

Winter departed, bringing fat drops of spring rain that pelted her armor and slithered down into her boots. Her feet swelled from the perpetual moisture and she took caution in every step, lest the friction peel her skin clean off. The thought horrified her, punctuated even more by the monsters they faced: undead bodies, possessed by demons after the soul had long gone. The corpses plumped from exposure to the elements and pursued her party with sickeningly squishy footsteps. Were she more adept at storm magics, she could theoretically manipulate the air and redirect the storm for some solace. She could charter gusts of wind to clear the fog that impeded their progress through the decrepit grove.  

Though, she convinced herself, she could do nothing to quell the stench of death over the area. 

At the Ostwick Circle, she'd seen Issan pour himself into his studies on the relation of magic and weather formations. He'd get a crease in his brow and squint as his mint eyes scanned decades of atlases and rainfall in the region. He told her once, after she'd failed another lesson in redirecting lightning, that he'd been developing a mage-supported system for field irrigation in times of drought. That drive to do good initially drew her to him. Even now, three years later, his name crossed her mind whenever it rained. 

"I wonder what this place looks like in the dry season," she mused. 

Varric cradled his crossbow underneath his coat in an attempt to keep the mechanisms dry. According to him, they had a tendency to lurch when wet. "Oh, I'm sure it's beautiful. Idyllic hills, lush greenery, and a copse full of cuddly little lambs grazing on their leaves." 

"You think so?" 

"No, Tiger. It's a fucking swamp." 

"Inquisitor, someone's up ahead," said Blackwall. 

A lone Avvar stood in a clearing, his dark war paint contrasting the milky fog. He hooded himself in a white pelt and lugged a stone hammer.  

"I've heard of you, Herald. The tales of your heroics have traveled far." 

Following Josie's instructions in diplomacy she held her right fist over her breast as an Avvar symbol of greeting. "Well met. They call me Neb." 

"They call me Amund, the Sky Watcher. I am a vessel for the Lady of the Skies." 

"Forgive my candor, Sky Watcher," she spoke, "but you do not attack us." 

He gave a solemn nod. "The Lady weeps, but you are her healer. Is this true?" 

"He must be talking about the rifts," Blackwall said. 

"Yes, I can mend the rifts." 

"Thank you. I know you seek your missing soldiers. They are held captive in yonder Keep by a madman who calls himself the Hand of Korth." 

"The Hand of Korth? Who's he?" 

"A heretic, and a mean one. Nothing more." 

"Thank you, Amund. We appreciate your help." 

Suddenly, a discordant hum rang out in the clearing and Neb had heard it enough times to know a rift formed where  they stood. 

"Get down!" she commanded. Neb lurched back as she and her party were bathed in a sickening green light. An elongated demon stretched its spindly limbs from within the tear and gave a teeth-shattering screech. 

Blackwall positioned his shield before him and rattled it with his sword to lure the creature toward him. Sera and Varric positioned themselves at midrange and readied their arrows. Neb stood at a distance and channeled her mana to cast a protective barrier over them all. Her studies at the Circle were restricted to where she could inflict the least amount of harm. This was where she felt most confident; ensuring the wellbeing of the battle worn. Support magics took precision and concentration and she took extreme care in her role as a noncombatant on the field. 

Unfortunately, the activity drew attention to spirits in the area, and the party was soon overwhelmed by a hoard of wisps and undead. Amund held his hammer aloft and joined the fray. Sera began to make quick work of picking them off.  

"Tiger, I could use a little help here!" Varric's gruff voice called her and she whipped her head in his direction, her soaked hair slapping her cheeks. Blackwall had been embroiled in a duel to the death with the demon and he was left exposed. She watched his crossbow lock and catch in the downpour, making it unable to fire. 

 _Oh no_. "Varric!" 

The demon perked its head and scanned the battlefield at her call. When its eyes landed on Varric, her body stiffened. It submerged in the ground like a stone in the water, resurfacing where he stood. The rogue reached into his pocket and flung a handful of elemental bombs at the demon's feet, going off in a blaze that was quickly doused by the rain. 

"I don't see any casting! Can't you just lightning this guy to death or something?" 

"Just hang on! I'll...think of something." 

"Don't think, just _fight_!" 

"I can't!" 

"Andraste's tits, Neb, just fry him!" 

She couldn't breathe. "I..." 

The demon finally fell after one of Sera's arrows pierced its skull. Neb held her left palm to the rift and poured all of her energy into it. The Mark did the rest of the work autonomously. When it was done, a silence fell over them as they gathered their composure and took stock of their injuries. 

Blackwall stepped up with an empty pouch. "We're going to need to return to Skyhold and devise a plan of attack. We've used up the last of our medical reserves in the fight." 

Neb agreed, and vocalized their plan to move out. 

Varric cradled Bianca in his hands and tried to alleviate the jam. She could see the pain on his face, feel the anger coming off of him. The sinking pit in her stomach swallowed her words, and she felt even more powerless.   

"Really appreciated the help there, Tiger."  

"Varric, I—I'm sorry." 

The dwarf shook his head and charged past her, leaving her standing still and stunned. 

Sera idled next to her and offered her a sip of her canteen. "I'm not mad at you, Inky. All that big magic is scary. I like that yours isn't scary." 

That was a small comfort, but she'd take what she could get. 

  


* * *

  


They deliberated the War Room upon her return. 

"What's our next plan?" 

"We know where they are," said Josephine. "I could appeal to the local lords in the area to intervene." 

"That requires more time than we have," Leliana chimed in. "My spies could infiltrate the Avvar stronghold, free our soldiers and capture this Hand of Korth." 

"Leaving him alive risks the possibility of growing a cult of fanatics in the area. I say we make an example of him, thus securing a route through the Frostbacks for our troops." Cullen intently placed his piece over the Avvar's location as if he'd just landed checkmate. 

Leliana and Josephine glanced at each other but held their tongues. Neb knew the man could be serious on the surface with a pithy, demanding demeanor, but in all their deliberations he'd inevitably conceded. 

"I respectfully disagree," Neb said, gently pushing the piece back toward him. "As Inquisitor, I may serve as judge and jury, but not executioner. I do not wish every head to meet the chopping block." 

He shot her a questioning look and her stomach lurched. Cullen wasn't planning on backing down this time. "The problem, Inquisitor, is that you do not allow _any_ head to see the end of an axe. They will continue to press us if we do not respond—" 

"They will see reason if we appeal to their intellect. There is no need for more loss of life." 

"It's _one_ life or the life of dozens! You don't need intellect to work that out!" he shouted. His commonly pensive demeanor dissolved into a vexed sneer. Josephine gasped at his influx and held a delicate hand over her mouth. Leliana stood perfectly still with her arms crossed behind her back. 

"Are you undermining me?" 

He groaned and pinched his nose between two fingers—one of the tells that he'd grown frustrated. "I'm _trying_ to alert you to the consequences of your sanctimonious naivety as the Inquisition's representative." 

" _Please_ , you two," Josephine pleaded. "This has gone on long enough. Perhaps we should arrange another time for—" 

"Leave us," Neb ordered. More vindictively than she should have, but now she found herself in a fit of agitated arousal. "Both of you." 

Josie hesitated, but Leliana carted her out of the war room by linking an arm in hers. She cast an adroit eye to the ceiling. If Neb knew her—which she'd like to think she did—she had already established means to transcribe any conversations that occur around the table when she wasn't present. She waited until the door closed completely before speaking again through gritted teeth. Neb stared him down. 

"How dare you," she hissed. 

Cullen folded his arms in defiance. "I'm sorry, are you under the impression that we're on a Chantry nun's retreat? We are at _war_. Thedas' citizens need confidence in that we can lead the charge." 

"Don't insult me! Thedas' citizens need to know that we are not a threat to them." 

"This man is a menace. A killer. If it were you or him, he wouldn’t think twice. You need to—" 

" _We_ need to lead with mercy at a time where there is none! What are you trying to do?" 

"My _jo_ _b_ , and I will not sacrifice what little time we may have to cater to your incredulity."  

"Your job?" Her eyes flashed. "May I remind you, Commander, that it's your job to advise me, and nothing further. Whether I choose to heed your word is _not_ your decision. _I_ am the Inquisitor. _I_ bear the Mark. _I_ march across the forgotten regions of this continent for months on end while you run training drills with wooden swords. _You_ answer to _me_." 

Cullen fixed her with a fiery stare and then deflated with a heavy groan. "What I mean to convey is that we cannot afford to show weakness." 

"Why? Is a weak mage not your preference?" She summoned a surge of mana that blossomed into ice crystals on her palm. "Is _this_ what you want? For me to become violent? Would you rather I make it so that you might subdue me? Is this all some cruel Templar tactic to provoke me into succumbing to my sinful ways, or do you really find my sense of judgment so unsound?" 

The ever-so-slight reflex over his sword handle caught her attention. Cullen looked away in shame, and his spurn burned its way into her core like bitter liquor. 

"You ass," she cursed. She didn't wait until she'd left the room to let her tears fall. An anxious ambassador called out to her, but she charged past her, wound her way through the revelry of the great hall and dashed through the door to her private chambers. 

The sob that burst its way through her chest was so heavy that she collapsed at the edge of the stairs. 

  


* * *

  


Early on, Neb learned that she was inordinately adept at restorative magics. In their sleepy library, she kept to herself, studying the patterns of barrier webbing; of mixing poultices into potions. Under Senior Enchanter Lydia's supervision, she surpassed her Harrowing and dedicated herself to her studies full-time. 

In the early morning hours, she took solace in the Chantry which was located on the same floor as spirit healing and herbalism. Neb liked the clarity and quiet reflection, and used it as an opportunity to keep her vocals limber. The Ostwick Circle had a generous music room, and she took resounding joy in her extracurricular pursuits. Often, she'd perform a song or accompany the nuns during morning mass on the harp. This morning, however, she prayed alone. 

Or so she thought, until shuffling footsteps alerted her and she stopped singing mid-note. 

"I'm sorry!" 

She turned to see a familiar face: Issan, the storm savant. The elf had a long, angled jawline, a swoon-worthy smile, a prominent nose and pale, wispy hair that reminded her of a newborn duckling in that it was chronically fluffed. Presumably, from static electricity. 

"Issan," she greeted. "You don't usually come up here, do you? Elementals are on the fourth floor." 

He shook his head. "No real need for theological tomes and healing scrolls usually. I needed to reference a particular drought at the River Pnemoix during the time of Damertes." 

"And you thought you'd start with Threnodies?" 

"Yes, that was the plan. Then I heard..." 

"Me?" 

Maker's breath, was he blushing? "It sounded...nice. I hope I didn't—" 

"No, no!" She beamed. "I like hearing it." 

"Oh. Good." 

She felt her own face grow hot and she clamored for an opportunity to continue their conversation. "So, what research are you conducting?" 

Issan adjusted his stance and puffed his chest as if he were giving his presentation to the academic board. "The relative effects of the Fade on Thedosian meteorological patterns. Evidence suggests that storms leave behind trace amounts of arcane residue. If there was a way that mages could tap into that, we could redirect rain in times of drought. Summon snow over a desert. Calm a raging hurricane and save lives. If we really wanted, we could terraform the very ground we stand on." 

Her eyes widened and she spoke in a whisper. "And the Templars let you continue your studies? Isn't that a heresy?" 

Issan gave a blithe shrug. "I suppose, but it's only a theory." 

Days later, she found him buried in a book down in elementals while perusing tomes on winter spells. Surgeons could benefit from mage assistants to slow patient heart rates, she suggested. Crumbs coated her lips as she snacked on a warm honey biscuit—a gift from Beatrice.   

"Working late?" she asked. 

"Afraid so," he said. Then he quizzically studied her hand. "Where did you get a scone at this hour?" 

Neb flushed and swallowed her bite. "The cook...she likes my remedy for her rheumatism." 

Then he flashed her that smile and _Maker_ , she'd never felt so nervous. "It seems we're both rebels, aren't we?" 

"Shh, don’t let the Templars overhear." She looked at the page he marked and noted an illustration of lightning. "What are you reading?" 

"An overview of fulminology. Rather basic, really." 

"That's a five copper word if I ever heard one. Nothing about it is basic to me. Storm magic was always my worst subject." 

"Is that so?" 

Neb pulled her hair back to reveal the scar on her scalp just past her temple. "Lydia tried to teach me how to control a lightning whip once. It ricocheted and struck me clear in the face. Never trying one again." 

His eye met hers with great interest. "Lightning is capricious, but I have learned a few tricks to manage it. If you'd like, I could show you." 

They met again before dawn in the training room. It would be hours before classes took place, and Issan had her full, undivided attention as he positioned her in front of a dummy. He was so close she could feel hot puffs of breath on her cheek. 

"The key to lightning is energy. As the air shifts, it generates a steady current. When you summon a spell from the Fade, your magic and that energy collide. Take a deep breath and close your eyes." 

"All right." Neb did as instructed. 

"Now hold it in," she felt fluttery as his hand slid over her stomach. "Feel the air current. Notice the minute changes in temperature?" 

She nodded. 

"Follow it with the lightning." 

Soon, her hand crackled with raw heat and she unleashed a steady stream of pure energy. She released her breath when it struck the dummy in a purple flash. 

"I did it!" she squealed joyously. " _I did it!_ " 

"I knew you could," Issan said, his voice low. He still hadn't removed his hand from her waist and his mouth was mere inches from her ear. The sensation was overwhelmingly intimate. Neb tilted her head to face him and when their eyes locked, she couldn't recall who kissed whom. 

They carried their tryst in secret. Neb coveted their infatuation, locked it deep in the well of her heart. The glances over dinner. The brushing of their fingers when exchanging scrolls. The glide of his tongue on her lips as they stole moments behind bookcases.  

When he entered her, she only wished there could have been a place for them to take their time and ravage each other properly. Instead they hid in the baths behind a folding screen, summoning an immolation variant to cloud their lust in a veil of steam. Neither knew what to do. She wasn't prepared for the pain, for the strain on her legs, for the sheer difficulty of keeping her damned mouth shut. When it finally started to feel good, she eased against him and he nuzzled the nape of her neck. 

"I think I'm—" 

"Wait!" He stopped and she heard it too: footsteps. _Fuck_. He pulled out and her back fell to the cold stone wall, leaving drips of moisture coating her feet.  

"Go. Now," she urged, pressing a hard kiss to his mouth. Issan dashed around the corner and didn't return, but the footsteps pursued her location. 

Then she was face-to-face with Senior Enchanter Lydia.  

"Foolish girl," she shook her head, noting Neb's raw lips and rosy cheeks. "You both risk the brand for this, do you realize that?" 

Contempt festered within her. It wasn't fair! She scowled at her superior. "I don't care." 

Lydia's dark eyes narrowed. "You are not to see each other again." 

"How can you—" 

"Nebula Trevelyan!" She scolded. "Since the moment you came here I have regarded you as one of the most level-headed children to ever cross these doors, but what you and Issan are doing is beyond reckless. You will end it before it escalates further, am I understood?" 

A hot tear dripped down her face. "Yes, ma'am." 

"I'll speak with him later. For now, get in the tub." 

"I don't feel like it." 

"Get in the tub, please. We have to clean you off." 

So she complied, stripping out of her robes and submerging herself in the copper basin. Lydia took the stool next to her. Neb hugged her knees as her mentor smoothed soap over her skin with a soft cloth and the gentleness of a mother washing her newborn. Her throat tightened and her breathing strained. 

"I was like you once. Please believe me when I tell you that I understand how it feels, but you must value your mind and the Chant first. That's the way it has to be." 

She said nothing. 

"It's all right to cry, child," she cooed. 

So she did. 

  


* * *

  


Neb opened her eyes, wishing to see the golden glow of sunrise filtering through her chamber windows, but saw only the dampness of her tent ceiling. She and her companions made it back to the Fallow Mire with supplies on-hand, and had finally reached the Keep.  

The dregs of sleep kept her lids heavy and she languidly stretched out of her cot. It had been years since she dreamed of the two of them. The Circle felt like another life, and a less tempestuous one by comparison. 

"Are you ready?" Blackwall asked when she emerged, fully armored. 

Neb nodded. Rumor traveled fast through the fortress—she could assume that her squad heard that the Inquisitor's wails echoed over the mountains until she'd sobbed herself dry. 

"Let's head out, then." 

Making their way through the army of the undead was easier than expected. The bodies had decayed further in their absence and their bones stumbled to keep up with them. Before long, they'd breached the gates, climbed the steps and Neb met face-to-face with the lumbering giant who claimed godhood among the Avvar. 

"Herald! Face me. I am the Hand of Korth himself!" He gestured to a bolted door at his side. "If you value your soldiers' lives, you must forfeit your own." 

"Unlike you, Korth, I am no killer. Let us negotiate peacefully. Tell us what you want." 

He answered by striking her with a stone that dented her breastplate. 

"I want your death!" he roared. 

Her party called to her, but the man moved too swiftly for his size.  

Neb spun her staff to block his strike, weaving a barrier in front of her to absorb most of the blow. They continued their dangerous dance for a time. Strike, block, swing, dodge. 

"I won't fight you," she said. 

"Then you will fall easily." He swung again and she ducked. His army overwhelmed her squadron and Neb noticed Varric's crossbow struggling once more. _No, no, no, no!_  

While distracted, another blow struck her clean in the abdomen and knocked the wind from her lungs. Gasping, she stumbled backward. Her opponent lunged in another raised attack and she felt cornered. He landed a punch to her head and she felt dizzy. For a brief moment she recalled the Ostwick shore, of sand soaked with blood. 

Recollections of Varric crying out to her flooded her thoughts. _Just fry him._  

"Face it, Inquisitor! You're _weak_ _!_ The Hand of Korth will reign over these lands, and your head will rot on a pike for all to see!" 

A breeze caressed her cheek and Neb felt as if a powerful spark leapt inside of her. She had no other option. She couldn't let anyone down again. He won't harm her, he won't, he won't, he won't... 

 _Feel the air current. The changes in temperature._  

"You threaten my people," she growled. "You think you've won, but you've forgotten one thing." 

"And what's that?" 

 _Follow it with the spell._  "That I'm a mage, and I can do this!" 

She sucked in a breath and chains of energy flew from her fingertips, trapping him in a cage of lightning. 

His body shook and convulsed as if possessed, wobbling lifelessly like the undead army below. The air evaporated around her, sizzling from strike after strike. When he fell to his knees and toppled over, her power peaked. Another charge sprung from her and tunneled to the sky like a beacon, sending rolls of thunder over the Keep. She turned to the guards at the gates. 

"You feared this Hand of Korth? You should fear _me_ _!_ I control the very skies!" 

Korth's army wavered, dashing desperate looks to one another. She's unleashed another crackle of lightning in their direction, sending them scattering. 

" _Leave!_ " she wailed. "Before you meet his fate!" Her body felt alight and all she could see were flashes of blinding violet. Let them run. Let them remember.  

The last of her mana waned and Neb surged forward, heaving uncontrollably. The sky continued to rumble from her charge. Her ears prickled from built-up static and there was a ringing in them. The very stone upon which she stood hissed with smoke. She glanced upward to see Sera and Varric looking somewhat stupefied.  

"You can stop now, Tiger. They're gone." 

Neb felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped. She spun to see Blackwall's sympathetic eyes. "Lady Trevelyan, are you all right?" 

"I'm gonna—I'll just," Sera stammered. Her lip quivered slightly, breathy and shaky. "Gonna check his pockets for keys." 

The ringing in her head wouldn't stop. She watched the elf raid the body for a means to free the soldiers but then she made the mistake of studying his face. His mouth agape in horror, eyes wide while steam rose from his corpse like a sickening fog. A vision flashed before her of a Templar's mangled body sprawled in the sand. 

The shock sent her head twirling and she nearly fainted. Blackwall broke her fall and held her steady while the emotional ramifications of what she'd done coursed  through her. Time slowed. Sera kneeled before the lock and the door creaked open. Inquisition soldiers filtered out in a glorious fanfare. Neb leaned against her friend's gambeson all the way back to camp through cold stone and slippery mud. 

Sera didn't speak to her for the remainder of the trip. 

  


* * *

  


" _You_ _!_ "  

Josephine stormed into his office with such force he startled. Soldiers and messengers knew to knock first. She'd always sent a page to deliver a note when she needed him, so the fact that she was there now indicated the level of her ire. 

"Sit down," she ordered, her well-groomed brows knitted in vexation. 

"...It's a standing desk." 

"Then plant your rump on it this instant or so _help_ me, Commander!" 

It was a rare thing indeed to see Josephine in a foul mood, so he did as he was told. 

"This is all _your_ fault!" She pointed an index finger at him. 

"Me?" 

"The Avvar accuse the Inquisitor of invoking the wrath of their gods for that display! We could lose the support of southern clans over this. And Sera has been cowering from Neb in her private quarters for days." 

"Their people don't meddle in the affairs of Lowland politics," he said, crossing his arms. "Whatever support they pull matters little. As for Sera: she'll come around, I'm certain." 

"As if I should expect you to concern yourself with such matters! But that is not why I have come here. Our Inquisitor is ready to speak with you. Please follow me to my office. At once." 

Cullen was sure she'd drag him out by his ear like a nagging grandmother if he didn't comply, so he kept up with her brisk pace across the battlements, down through the gardens and up the stone steps before finally turning the corner into her study. The ambassador urged him in. 

"Nothing you say can encompass the gamut of what you have done. You will listen to her first. Whether she accepts your apology is her decision. Best of luck, Commander," she said with a hint of disdain. Cullen knew that Josephine and Neb had become close and realized that in this matter she was no longer the resident envoy maintaining cohesion in the upper ranks of the institution, but a concerned friend. 

He made out the top of her head in one of Josephine's arm chairs as he stepped into the sunken sitting area. Neb sat in front of the hearth, her chestnut hair still damp from bathing the harshness of the road from her skin. A tray sat next to her containing an iron pot over a heated rune. She cradled a teacup in her palms and draped a pelt over her red brocade robe. 

"Hello, Cullen." She didn't look at him when he sat in the chair next to hers, focusing instead on the rise and fall of flickering flames. The amber glow dramatically shaded her face, making her soft, rounded features appear unnaturally severe. Her seething intensity sent a vision of Knight-Commander Meredith flashing before his eyes. "Do you want some hot chocolate?" 

He found her monotone unsettling. Gone was the brightness and mirth that colored her words whenever she greeted him. There was usually a buoyancy and sweetness to her voice that he was sure could reduce a raging lion to a kitten rolling in clover. Now, it sounded rigid.  

"No," was all he could think to say. 

She gave a slow nod and her eyes dropped to the cup. "There was a cook back at the Ostwick Circle who made the most incredible hot chocolate. She'd bring me servings of it in secret during late night studies. She risked punishment for doing that, but insisted it was her way of thanking me." 

"What did you do for her?" 

Neb tipped the cup to her lips and took a small sip. "Her joints couldn't take the strain anymore, but she needed to care for her son who'd been born ill and couldn't work. She liked the elfroot balm I made to block the pain. The hot chocolate was merely one favor in exchange for another." She sipped again. "Do you know where she is now, Cullen?" 

"Where?" He asked, though he feared he knew the answer. 

"She's dead." 

"I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say to that. 

"When word of Grand Enchanter Fiona's secession reached us, havoc spread. We lived a life of carefully composed order, and then met only anarchy. Loyalists and rebels sparred in the halls. Friends turned foes. Senior Enchanter Lydia tried to keep the peace amidst uncertainty." 

"I'd heard of her. She was your mentor, correct?" 

Neb closed her eyes and held them shut, as if drowning in an ocean of visceral memories. It was an expression he, too, had worn. 

"It doesn't matter. She's dead." 

"Maker's breath." 

"Issan killed her." 

If he wasn't mistaken, she spoke an Elven name. "Issan?" 

Her lips briefly curled in a wry smile with a hint of mischief. "We were lovers once." She paused. "Only once." 

His cheeks grew hot at the notion of the Herald of Andraste carrying out a forbidden affair. He rubbed the back of his neck. "...I see."  

"Lydia caught us together, just as she found him in the phylactery chamber. He'd organized a group of apprentices to break in and destroy every vial. They feared that the Templars would come for us; invoke the Right of Annulment now that we were all technically apostates. She tried to reason with him, but he was terrified. He had his own phylactery in his hands. He was just so, so afraid." 

 _Maker_. He paused, choosing his words carefully. Since the fateful day they met, he'd wondered what went on behind those cognac eyes, but nothing prepared him for the leader of the faithful spilling her secrets to him so plainly after he'd been carelessly unsympathetic.  

"That must have been—" 

"He's dead now, too," she continued as if she hadn't even heard him. "Lost at the Conclave. His ashes were scattered by winds. Maybe he would have wanted that. To float with the seasons." 

He felt there was more to the story, so he waited. 

"Once the Circle fell, I had to survive on what little training I had. What did I know? Potion making, restorative magics, protective barriers. Never held a blade. Never even prepared my own food. I was helpless." 

"What about your family?" 

"The roads were unsafe. Mages who reached the city met hoards of Templars and due to my status as a shameful, ill-kept secret, my family never sent word. Instead, I made camp in a rock grove not far from the ocean. One night I heard a bustle in the bushes followed by a painful groan. Nearly jumped out of my skin when a Templar collapsed in front of my fire." 

Cullen resisted the urge to ask what he looked like to glean whether or not it was someone he knew. "What did you do?" 

"He was wounded, Cullen. I did the only thing I knew how." 

He listened to her spin her final tale of the evening. The man writhed and wailed and bled heavily from a stab wound in his lower abdomen. Neb wagered that he met the bladed end of a staff. She hoped that if she'd tended to his injuries he'd spare her. That maybe he was just like her and caught in the throes of a war he never wanted to wage. She needed to believe that an act of kindness would beget more kindness and put a stop to the bloodshed before the battle exacerbated. So she soothed him with gentle words and reassuring touches as she stripped him of his armor. 

"Eoin, he told me his name was." Cullen nodded. He didn't know him.  

He complied with her instructions as she began to stitch the gash, but something changed. He took a sharp inhale and held it, holding his body perfectly still. Neb didn't have the means to make a numbing salve and his lack of cries concerned her. Then she looked at him, his eyes wide with consternation, as he fixated on the glowing bottle of lyrium poking from the top of her medicine pack. 

"The Circle's storehouses had been raided and supplies were limited. Who knew how long he'd been without a draught? He stayed still, watching my stitching, then back to the bottle, then to me. He licked his lips in such a way that I knew something was wrong." 

Though nothing prepared her for how swiftly the injured man moved. He surged forward, stone in hand, and struck her across the temple hard enough to knock her over. She described the hot wetness of her own blood spurting forth and coating the side of her face, making her dizzy. 

"'By law, no apostate shall flee the swift hand of justice,' he said. I panicked, didn't know what to do. That's when my hand fell onto my medicine bag and I grabbed for the closest thing I had to a weapon." 

He made a fatal error in reaching for the lyrium bottle first. It was Neb's turn to surprise him by driving the blades of her herbalist's scissors into his side, causing him to collapse. 

"...But I didn't stop there. I pushed it in hard, with as much force as I could muster. I spiraled my wrist and swirled his insides until I heard one of his ribs crack and he fell limp. Then—and only then—did I stop." 

Cullen winced at her graphic detail. He tried to imagine her appled cheeks glazed in dried blood like a grotesque war paint. 

"He looked so surprised, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. All I ever wanted to do was heal, Cullen, but on that day I killed a man. What was that you said before? If it was him or me?" 

"Inquisitor, I—" 

"The shock took over immediately. How could I just pick up and run after that? It consumes you, the realization that you've just murdered someone." 

Maker's breath, how he wished she would just _look_ at him. Grief contorted within him, twisting in his gut like a dull pair of gardening shears.   

"So I didn't run. I sat with him next to the fire for days. Watched his body bloat and his gums turn black. The winds howled and pelted us with sand sometimes. Finally, my thirst became overwhelming and I left." She gave a soft, eerie chuckle. "A base desire, the need for water. That's all it took to motivate me to move. When I found a stream, I drank to my fill. After that I was finally able to cry." 

"That's...I'm sorry. I never knew." 

Neb gave a composed shrug. "How could you? Do you think me the type to advertise my body count?" 

"Please don't jest. I understand that I was crass and pigheaded. Now...it almost feels too much to ask your forgiveness." 

"I've prayed all morning for the grace to forgive you," she said softly, "but you must live with the impression that I may never be able to forgive myself." 

They shared mutual silence while Cullen digested her words. Neb took the last sip of her cup and stood, wrapping the pelt over her shoulders. Standing over him with the flames at her back made her look even more imposing. She stood still, yet he felt an energy around her that quickened the air. 

"I shall not be like them any longer: Issan, that Templar," she said. "I don't want to be motivated by fear. Corypheus rules with terror, and so I shall rule with compassion. If you can't accept that, I'll order your resignation personally."  

He bristled. "Understood." 

"One more thing?" The warning in her voice rattled like lightning in a bottle. She met his gaze then, and Maker, the coldness in her eyes nearly froze him. "If you insult my integrity once more, I'll notify Master Dennett that he is to receive a new stable hand. Is that clear?" 

Cullen clenched his fists in his lap, resisting the well-formed habit to ease the tension in his neck in a vain attempt to save face. "Yes, Inquisitor." 

When she left the room, a chill rang through the air. Cullen felt an intolerable amalgam of guilt and shame. He'd been unfair to her and unabashedly cruel. Meredith commanded him to lead with logic and to avoid appealing to emotion under any circumstance—and Cullen drank her words like nectar. Yet even at Neb's lowest point, she showed more kindness for a violent stranger than the Knight-Commander ever would.  

It was a brave new world, and she led the charge with love. 

He should never be so presumptuous to predict what fate met the future of the Inquisition, but he should have faith that the Maker chose His sword wisely.  

  


* * *

  


The sun sank below the Frostbacks, casting a rosy glow over the garden. He and Dorian made a habit of weekly chess matches as a means to refresh their minds lest they lose them over mounds of reading and paperwork. Neb tended to her garden outside the gazebo. His gaze drifted to her hunched over a wilting pot of embrium and he watched her sink her hands into the moist earth. The fine hairs on his neck prickled as he detected a magical shift in the air. It was impossible to forego decades of Templar training when it came to casting, and he saw with surprise that two more buds had blossomed. She'd reinforced the roots with a restorative spell before snipping the lush bounty with her shears. 

He briefly wondered if they were the same pair that slayed Eoin, but then turned back to the board feeling ashamed.  

It looked...different. Dorian took advantage of his distraction to swap his knight and rook. 

"You really think I wouldn't notice?" 

His opponent conceded with a sigh and inspected his fingernails. "All's fair in war and all that, am I right? My king merely seized an opportunity in your moment of weakness." 

"That's _not_ how the game works." 

"Honestly, Commander, you should be thanking me for keeping you on your toes." 

"Oh, Dorian, just admit you cheated." Neb stood next to them, arms folded, head tilted coquettishly as she scolded her companion. One hand held her gardening gloves.  

"Inquisitor!" He started, causing his knee to brush the table which sent pieces tumbling over the board helter-skelter. 

Dorian shook his head at the Commander's display and eyed Neb's attire. "Lady Trevelyan, you're a vision. Truly the second most marvelous creature in our company—the first being me, in case there were doubts." 

She chuckled. "Please, I know you jest. Last week you said these robes wouldn't befit an old crone. I appreciate the sentiment, though." 

Then her eyes landed on his and he felt a tightening in his sternum. Instinctively, he grasped the nape of his neck. Dorian's eyes alternated between the two of them. 

"Well, far be it from me to lie down and accept my defeat. I'd rather issue an order to flee that I may fight another day. Inquisitor, find me in the library when you've a moment. I have good reason to believe that Sera is in the midst of pilfering your underclothes and plans to hide them in my study. I suppose that means she's forgiven you." With that, he stood and left the gazebo. 

"I should get back to my duties, as well," said Cullen. 

She nodded firmly. "Then I won't keep you." 

Her tone was unreadable these days. The personal nature of their last conversation loomed over them and Cullen felt his skin grow clammy. Would they spend the remainder of their respective careers as strangers, or had he just received an opportunity to begin reparations? It was only right that the onus be on him, and he should not pass his days running from her with his tail between his legs. Like her, he should lead with kindness.

"That is..." 

She quirked a brow. 

"Unless, of course, you'd care for a game?" His heart hammered so hard he feared it may crack, but then her expression softened and she smiled. Cullen felt a flourish of gratitude. Maker, she _smiled._  

"I'm more honest a player than Dorian, though twice as terrible. You may feel cheated regardless." 

"To be quite honest, Inquisitor," he said, "in the midst of all we've faced of late I could use an easy victory." 

Neb grinned and graciously took her seat, setting her equipment to the side. "Prepare the board, Commander." 

**Author's Note:**

> Worry not, things work out for these two in the end.


End file.
